Lessons From the Bottle
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: Dudley learns a lot of things while drinking. Most of them aren't good.


_Hogwarts Assignment 3, Mythology task 12: Write about an alcoholic._

 _Warning: alcoholism, homophobia, depression, self hatred._

 _I'm sorry. I hurt my own feelings writing this._

 _Word Count: 1619_

* * *

I.

At thirteen, he learns that alcohol is disgusting, but he still accepts the warm beer that Piers stole from his stepfather. It tastes like piss, and he wants to puke, but Dudley has a reputation to protect. He is fearless and strong, and he will not let something as stupid as a drink get the better of him.

He takes another deep drink, ignoring the way it makes his stomach cramp.

"Mate, some of us want a sip too!" Malcolm laughs, snatching the bottle from Dudley's hand.

Really, Dudley is grateful for an excuse to get rid of it, but he sees the way his friends look at him and laugh. Gritting his teeth, he slams his fist against the back of Malcolm's head just to remind him who's boss. The bottle falls from the other boy's hand, and Dudley hits him again. "Look at you," he says coldly as Malcolm rubs the red mark that blossoms over his freckled cheek. "Wasted a perfectly good beer."

All eyes are on him. Three boys stare, all wearing expressions that are equal parts fear and respect. Dudley snatches up the bottle, wiping off the neck before downing the contents. It's still disgusting, but it makes them look at him like a god.

…

The next week at school, word gets around. Dudley Dursley drank a whole beer by himself and messed up someone's face.

Normally, he doesn't like rumors. This one is okay; this one elevates his status a little more, and people watch him in fascination.

Maybe alcohol isn't so bad after all.

II.

At fifteen, he learns that alcohol isn't just for fun. It can help kill things inside him, if only for a little while.

He doesn't hesitate when Dennis pulls out the bottle of cheap vodka he probably brags about stealing from the store down the road. Dudley doesn't give a damn where it comes from. He pours himself a generous glass.

It burns in a way beer doesn't, and the taste reminds him of rubbing alcohol. It should be horrible, but he laughs. He can feel the terrible thoughts in his mind melting away.

By the time he finishes his glass, his vision is blurry, and he stumbles when he walks. The others laugh at his clumsy movements. He would knock their teeth out in a heartbeat, but his arms feel useless.

As he fills his glass again, his hand shakes. Some of the clear splashes over the table, and he doesn't bother to clean it up. His mother would be horrified by his sloppiness, but she'd probably be more horrified if she knew the things going on his mind.

He drinks, welcoming the burn as the vodka spills down his throat.

…

After that night, he notices the world doesn't quite feel right while sober. The screaming in his head is too loud. His home is too tidy, too perfect, and it reminds him that he will never quite fit in with their perfect world.

He lives for those moments when he can sneak in a drink and forget the world exists.

III.

At sixteen, he learns that alcohol gives him courage and that it makes the perfect excuse.

The party is too crowded, and he feels like he's suffocating among all the laughing faces and dancing bodies. He takes a shot, smiling as the amber liquid works its magic. Another shot, and he feels more relaxed. He loses count of how many he takes, but he feels invincible; he's on top of the world and nothing can bring him down.

Piers finds him outside, sprawled out on the lawn. "Ever notice how pretty the moon is?" Dudley asks, lifting an arm. He giggles as his arm falls, too heavy to keep it in the air for long. "I want to touch it."

Piers snorts and sits beside him. Silence hangs between them for what feels like an eternity. Dudley watches the dark clouds drift across the moon overhead. "Mate, how much have you had to drink?" Piers asks.

"Lil' bit." Dudley sits up, groaning. The blood rushes to his head, and his pudgy fingers desperately grip at the grass to keep him from falling away.

"You drink a lot."

"No… I don't," he laughs, his words as slurred and messy as his brain feels.

Piers opens his mouth to respond, but Dudley doesn't give him a chance. The alcohol has always helped him destroy the things inside him, but now it gives him the courage to embrace his demons. He leans in, capturing Piers' lips in a sloppy kiss.

His friend pulls away, wiping his mouth before spitting. "What the fuck was that?" he demands.

"What?"

"I'm not gay, Dudley!" He jumps to his feet, angrily wiping away the blades of grass that cling to his jeans. "Fucking disgusting."

As Piers storms off, Dudley wonders if he should follow him. He chooses not to. How can he explain what's going on in his head?

He lays back in the grass, watching the stars twinkle against the ink black sky. The world begins to fade away, growing dark. He doesn't move from that spot until the sprinklers wake him the next morning.

…

Piers doesn't talk to him after that. Dudley tries to lie and say it's because he was drunk. Piers doesn't believe him.

It takes three days for the whole school to find out Dudley Dursley is a queer.

Before the week is over, he finds the word _FAG_ scratched into his locker. Whispers and laughter follow him down the hallways.

It only makes him cling to the bottle more.

IV.

At eighteen, he learns that no one bats an eye if he goes to the same bar every night. Maybe they're just happy for the money; maybe they just don't care if someone drinks themselves to death.

He sits at the bar, downing his Jack on the rocks and calling for another. The bartender obliges, and Dudley finishes it off too.

"Maybe you should slow down," the young man next to him suggests.

"Maybe you should mind your own business," Dudley snaps.

"You're pretty cute when you're angry."

Dudley's jaw drops. No one talks like that so openly, even as a joke. It's an easy way to get attacked.

"Don't remember me?" the man laughs, pushing a hand through his auburn curls. "Isaac Avery. We went to school together. I already know about you."

Dudley wants to slam his glass against his head. One good thing about his family being forced to move from Surrey was that he could escape the fallout after Piers spilled the beans. What are the fucking odds an old classmate would be in this bar?

"Of all the gin joints," Dudley mutters, signaling for another drink.

The alcohol feels good in his system. His anxiety settles, and Isaac's presence isn't as annoying.

"Rubbish how they treated you," Isaac continues. "Always thought you were pretty cute, you know."

When he turns his attention back to his old classmate, the other man's cheeks are stained pink, and his lips are pulled into a shy smile. He isn't Piers; Dudley doesn't want him the way he wanted his former friend.

But Dudley is drunk, and Isaac is there, and maybe he'll have to do.

…

When it's over, he hates himself. Dudley blacks both of Isaac's eyes and splits his lip. He blames the alcohol and tries to convince himself that he wouldn't have hurt Isaac if he wasn't drunk.

He doesn't believe himself. He knows that he wants to hurt Isaac because he can't hurt himself.

He doesn't go back to that bar again, but that's the beauty of London. He can always find a drink whenever he needs it.

V.

At twenty-one, he learns that alcohol is not the answer.

The smell of vomit is strong when he opens his eyes. He wipes his mouth, grimacing when his hand comes away coated with vomit. With a groan, he doubles over, throwing up again.

This isn't the first time he's woken up hungover. By now, it's just another familiar feeling, as normal as waking up to an alarm clock. One thing is different, however.

He is surrounded by people, and it takes several moments for him to realize he's on the underground. A sea of strangers watch him. Some look at him with pity; others don't bother to hide their disgust.

Dudley pushes his vomit-slick hand through his hair, trying to remember how he even got here. He remembers a bar and another man— his latest lover and punching bag— and an out of the way hotel. But that's all. The rest is a blur.

He leans his head back, no longer caring that he's sitting in a pool of his own piss and puke. They will come to a stop soon, and he will run away.

…

After that, he cries to his parents, telling them the truth— the truth about his alcoholism, about who he loves. His mother cries with him while his father watches in stunned silence.

His mother tells him everything will be okay. His alcoholism can be treated, and there's a little rehab center that Aunt Marge had to go to just a few years ago.

"Works wonders," his father assures him.

"And the other thing?" Dudley is almost afraid to bring it up. He's spent years hiding it, so afraid that his parents will think he's broken.

"It isn't ideal," his mother answers. "We'll get through this."

The tears won't stop, and he doesn't bother wiping them away. This is the first time he's felt hope in forever, and he didn't even have to find it at the bottom of a bottle.


End file.
